


A Reprieve

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Fluff, Libraries, M/M, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladins, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Jon and Martin spend some quality time in Jon's library.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 60
Kudos: 183





	A Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back!
> 
> So I kinda accidentally took a break from writing over the holidays, because it turned out that I'd managed to burn myself out a bit, but I'm back into it now. Thanks again to everyone for your patience as this series chugs its way along.
> 
> As always, I'd recommend reading the rest of the series before jumping into this fic.
> 
> No content warnings for this bad boy. Enjoy yourselves!

Jon’s home, for that was how Martin had begun to think of it, was more like a labyrinth than a library.

It didn’t take Martin long to feel well enough to leave his makeshift sickbed behind and start exploring the place. Though Jon fretted, Martin told him again and again that he felt fine, really, and he could only lie in that spillover room for so long.

“Besides,” he’d told Jon, as he untangled himself from the cushions and blankets, “if I let an angel keep a bedside vigil over me any longer, it’s going to start affecting my ego.”

“If my bedside manner was that bad, you should have said so,” Jon deadpanned, and Martin laughed.

At first, Jon insisted on being Martin’s guide through the library, and it was a good thing, too. Even with Jon only a step or two ahead of him, the layout of the place gave Martin the impression that he would be utterly lost if he fell behind even for a moment. Hallways twisted in disorienting, curving paths, rooms were bigger or smaller than they seemed from the outside, and staircases lead to places that were either higher or lower than they should have been. Retracing one’s steps was impossible; though Martin always felt sure he knew where a hallway led to, it never brought him back to the right place.

Jon, of course, was unruffled by all of this, knowing his way around the library as well as he knew his own form. Though he was initially quite confused as to why Martin kept getting lost, he told Martin to simply shout if he needed help. “I’ll come, or a moth, whomever is faster,” Jon said, adding gently, “You’re very safe here.” Indeed, if the greatest danger of Jon’s library was getting lost in it, well, Martin had heard of much worse fates.

If the room Martin had woken up in was chaotic, the rest of the library was its slightly less messy cousin. It was plain to Martin that Jon did, in fact, have an organizational system, but one that made sense only to him. There was no part of the library that was not lined, wall to wall, with written works, in as many languages as Martin had ever heard of, and several he hadn’t. There were piles of books and papers spilling out into hallways, haphazardly stacked on the steps of staircases, and stuffed into nooks and crannies, wherever an inch of room could be spared. The library, like a vine on a stone wall, seemed to have grown itself up between and around the stacks of books, rather than the other way around.

Forget about getting lost; the most difficult part of this for Martin would be figuring out where to start. He suspected that he could wander Jon’s library for a century and never pick up the same text twice. As it was, he let hours wile away as he picked up volume after volume, only a fraction of them written in a language he actually knew, about absolutely any subject under the sun (and, he suspected, several beyond it). The sheer variety of texts was overwhelming: there were of course published works of fiction and nonfiction, but there were also historical documents, accounting records, children’s stories, personal diaries, recipes, pamphlets, wanted posters, scientific notes, instruction manuals, and even shopping lists to be found amongst the labyrinth of knowledge.

Martin hungrily read through everything that made even the remotest sense to him. Jon would often find him sitting in the middle of a hallway with a slowly shrinking stack of materials at his side. He always seemed a little surprised to come across Martin, as though he’d forgotten, for a moment, that he was sharing his library with another person. Martin didn’t take offense. After all, Jon had been alone here for so long before this. And it was hard to feel unwelcome when Jon’s surprised expression would fade so quickly to fondness, asking if he could join Martin where he sat.

Jon seemed to have no qualms about sitting on the floor up against a bookshelf, though often he would leave to go fetch a couple of cushions for the two of them to use. Martin rather liked these chance meetings; Jon would lean warmly into his side to read over his shoulder, and sometimes Martin would offer to read to him aloud, a concept Jon seemed particularly taken by. Martin was surprised at how normal it all felt. It had never been easier for him to lean into Jon’s side in return, resting a head against his shoulder.

It was odd and rather charming to see Jon this way, in his element. He was simultaneously the most relaxed Martin had ever seen him, and also the most persnickety. It was clear he was most comfortable when he was in his library, with all the trappings of his domain at his fingertips. He strode through the winding hallways with a confidence Martin was still getting used to after the Jon he’d known on the mortal plane. He wore simpler robes, and wore his hair in looser braids or none at all, letting it hang carelessly over one shoulder or down his back. His wings went uncovered and undisguised, and made a faint swishing sound that followed Jon wherever he went.

On the other hand, Jon also seemed rather flummoxed about Martin’s presence in his library. He had clearly never hosted a guest before, and didn’t seem entirely sure what to do. He and Martin soon discovered that, like Jon, Martin didn’t need to eat or sleep on the ethereal plane, so that was taken care of, however Jon was constantly asking Martin if he was cold, or uncomfortable, or needed something soft to sit on. Martin always insisted repeatedly that he was fine, honest, and Jon would say defensively, his nose in the air, “Mortals are delicate, is my only point.”

Jon was also quite protective of his collection. Though he pretended he was unbothered, Martin often caught Jon glancing over his shoulder, making sure he knew which book he had taken off the shelf. Occasionally he would try to hint, very badly, that Martin double check that he was putting things back in the proper place. Martin, amused, would always nod and say yes, he would, don’t worry.

A librarian, Martin supposed, was a librarian, no matter what plane they were from.

And, like any librarian, Jon was keen to offer recommendations. While Martin was still recovering, Jon had gathered a collection of works he thought Martin would enjoy, presenting them to him with a somewhat expectant air. “I haven’t read . . . most of these, myself,” Jon had said, holding out the nearly two-foot-tall stack of books. “I mostly enjoy historical texts. But the moths inform me that you’d appreciate these. There’s some poetry in there,” he added, hopefully, as Martin took the pile, grunting a bit under its weight. “Ranoire? Have you read them?”

Martin had not, in fact, but told Jon he would let him know what he thought. “I’m sure I’ll like them, though,” he’d said, truthfully. It had been a long time since he’d picked up a new poet, and the way Jon so eagerly offered it to him only endeared Martin further.

Jon had also graciously provided Martin with a writing desk of his own, which he used to pen his own poetry. Inspiration wasn’t hard to come by; surrounded by the smell of old parchment and the sight of fluttering moths, and with Jon’s presence never too far away, Martin set about replacing Jon’s collection of Blackwoods with gusto.

Most of his time in the library, however, was spent with Jon. One of their favored meeting places, if one didn’t count random encounters in the hallways, was in a larger room, with a high, arched ceiling and grand columns that separated the bookshelves, which contained a fireplace flanked by two armchairs. The room seemed to be, by Martin’s estimation, about central to the rest of the library, though he’d long since given up mapping out the place. Strangely enough, it was the room that was always easiest for Martin to find, whether he was trying to or not, as though the library itself was trying to guide him there.

It was there that Jon and Martin would spend most of their time together, in silence or in discussion, often about books. As it turned out, Martin did rather like Ranoire, and Jon looked unaccountably relieved when Martin told him so. “I have so little poetry here,” he said. “I was worried you wouldn’t like any of it.”

“Ah, right,” Martin said. “You said poetry wasn’t one of your favorites.”

“Well, I—I’d hardly given it a chance before,” Jon said, quickly. “At least I have a favorite poet, now.”

Martin felt his cheeks heat, and he had to fight back a grin. “Oh, well, that’s—thanks,” he said quietly.

“A-And . . .” Jon hesitated. “I . . . rather like the way you recite it.”

Martin didn’t need to be told this. He had taken to reading aloud for Jon when he found good lines, and Jon, whose face was one of the most expressive Martin had ever known, would always light up to listen to him. Still, it was nice to hear Jon say it.

In that moment Martin was struck, for the first time since he’d woken up, by the sheer strangeness of their situation. Here he was, in an angel’s library, trading thoughts on poetry as though they were members of a book club. Or, rather, friends. Which Martin supposed they were.

He frowned to himself. _Friends_ seemed like such a small word for the two of them. What did you call an angel who had saved your life, who plainly adored you, and who you adored in turn? Martin supposed that would make them romantic partners. But they’d never discussed such an arrangement, and Martin had no real urge to bring it up. Besides, who was to say what sort of partnerships existed among angels, or if Jon was the sort to enter into one? Jon seemed happy with the two of them as they were, and Martin found, as he considered it, that he was, as well.

For what felt like the dozenth time in the last few weeks, Martin wondered what in the world he did to end up here. Whatever it was, he thought as Jon peered over the top of his book to smile at him, he had better keep doing it.

* * *

It was strange, having Martin in his library. Ever since Jon had come into being his library had existed in much the same way as it did now, the only change being its size, which had grown along with his collection. Everything in the library was precisely in its place, and if it was not, Jon himself was the one who had moved it.

For centuries now, it had just been Jon, the moths, and his collection. Now, suddenly, there was Martin, an unknown quantity, who had so eagerly made himself at home. Jon, of course, had wholeheartedly welcomed him into the library, but it was another matter entirely to see Martin up and about, perusing it. As soon as Martin felt well enough, he’d begun exploring, wandering through the shelves and the rooms, picking things up and putting them down again, moving things this way and that. Though Martin was always respectful of his collection, Jon would be lying if he said it didn’t give him some measure of anxiety to think of Martin putting a book back in the wrong place, or mishandling one, or—he shuddered at the thought—of losing one altogether. It was such a delicate and precise system, after all.

Jon was also a bit embarrassed at the state of his home. He had never before had visitors, nor did he know of anyone who would wish to visit, and so he had never prepared for one. All of his amenities were made with only himself in mind. It was with mortifying surprise that he found all of his armchairs were just a bit too tall for Martin to comfortably use. The poor man had to sit with his legs barely brushing the floor, and while Martin insisted, with amusement, that this was perfectly suitable, Jon immediately went to scour his storage rooms for a footstool.

Jon had only ever acquired single armchairs, tucked into tiny corners of the library, which he now let Martin have full use of. Often Jon found himself awkwardly towering over Martin where he sat, the both of them craning their necks in order to have a conversation. It did not take long for Jon to drag an armchair down a couple of flights of stairs to join the one that sat by the fireplace in the main hall. The footstool followed soon after. It was there, where Martin was free to enjoy the light and warmth of the fireplace, that they spent many long hours talking, or simply reading together in companionable silence.

These were not activities Jon was familiar with, or very good at, but he was rapidly growing to appreciate them. He liked, for instance, that when he read a particularly fascinating passage, he could lift his head and tell Martin about it, and perhaps read some aloud to him as well. Jon had never before had the luxury of _sharing_ knowledge with anyone. Nor had he ever had the odd, unexpected pleasure of hearing Martin do the same, if he found something he wished to share with Jon.

The first time it happened, it caught Jon utterly off-guard. In the total silence of the room, Martin’s voice had suddenly pierced the dusty, warm air, asking Jon if he wanted to hear a few lines of poetry. Jon, who had never before considered that reading could be done aloud, was too stunned to do anything but nod. Martin read for him a few lines of Ranoire, but Jon didn’t really hear the words themselves. Martin’s voice was soft as he recited, his cadence rhythmic and gentle, like a rocking chair, but it was sure and strong enough to fill the room. It was an extraordinary thing, and Jon was eager to listen from then on, no matter how well he already knew the words. In Martin’s voice, they always sounded new.

Jon had also given Martin free use of one of his many unused writing desks, if he wished to sit and write poetry. (Jon had to clear away the piles of scrolls on top of it, but those were easily reorganized and placed on a different desk.) More often than not, Martin would simply take out a piece of parchment and write wherever he happened to be, as inspiration struck him, but sometimes Jon would find him sitting at the desk, quill in hand, staring daggers at a blank sheet of paper.

“I’m waiting for inspiration,” Martin would explain when Jon asked what he was doing. It was a curious thing to wait for, in Jon’s opinion. As though an idea could pop out of the air at any time, and make a home in Martin’s head. He wondered if that was how all mortals created written works. It seemed to him a remarkably uncertain and inconvenient process.

Sometimes Martin would even write by the fireplace, with Jon right next to him. He would be reading, and then a flash of something would appear in his eyes, and Martin would immediately set the book aside and start scribbling lines of his own. This always gave Jon a thrill, to know that a brand new piece of written knowledge was being created before his eyes, and by his Martin, no less. He would always try sneaking a peek, of course, and of course Martin would always angle the paper away, saying it wasn’t finished yet.

The oddest and perhaps loveliest thing about having Martin in his library was that Jon could come across Martin unexpectedly, as he wandered through the stacks. If Jon wished to, he could, as always, reach out with his senses to find where Martin was, but now that they were in the same place there was no need. So whenever Jon happened upon Martin by accident, it was always a pleasant surprise.

When Jon came upon him Martin was almost always deep in a text, or searching the shelves for more. There would be a moment or two, before Martin noticed him, when Jon would have the privilege just to look. Martin’s brows would be furrowed as he read, his lips turned down in concentration, his mouth working as he bit the inside of his cheek. The musty, dim light of the library would catch his dark eyes under the shadow of his hair and brow. One hand would be on his book, the other tugging absentmindedly on a strand of hair, or worrying the hem of his tunic (which was actually Jon’s) that he still wore. And, as ever, there were always a handful of moths at Martin’s side, patiently fanning their wings.

In the moments before Martin would look up and see him, Jon would often be struck by Martin’s serenity. He looked utterly at home where he sat with his back up against Jon’s bookshelves, legs stretching leisurely across the narrow hallway, as though he belonged there. That wasn’t to say that he _didn’t_ belong there, of course, but any other mortal, Jon was certain, would feel out of place in an angel’s library on a plane that was not their own. Yet there was not an ounce of fear or discomfort in Martin’s stance as he went about the library.

The thought warmed Jon deeply. His library was a part of him, and to see Martin feeling at home there, sharing in his collection as no one else ever had, felt like the highest honor. He had only ever wanted for Martin’s happiness, and now that he was able to give it to him . . .

There was a part of Jon, a selfish, enamored part, that didn’t want him to go. It was a part of him that went suddenly cold when, as the two of them were reading by the fireplace one day, Martin spoke up.

“I should be getting back to Tim and Sasha soon, shouldn’t I.”

Jon glanced over at him. Martin was staring off into the middle distance, his book resting limply in his lap, forgotten. He looked stricken. “I know you said they’re alright, but . . . it isn’t right to leave them waiting for me.”

“N-No, I suppose not,” Jon said, haltingly. He swallowed around the anxious feeling that had suddenly risen in his throat.

Martin turned hurriedly to look at him. “I-I didn’t mean—it’s been wonderful here, really. Your library is incredible, and you . . . you’ve been . . . thank you, Jon, for—for everything. But I can’t . . .” Martin shrugged helplessly. “I mean, we both know I can’t stay here forever.”

Jon nodded. “I . . . I know. I wouldn’t wish to keep you from your friends, I—” He tugged at the loose strands of his hair with restless hands. “I-If you want to go, Martin, I—you know I would never keep you here—”

Martin was nodding, leaning over the armrest to place a steadying hand on his arm. “I know,” he said, reassuringly. “That’s not what I’m implying.” He shot Jon a smile, and Jon calmed slightly. “And I’m not sure I want to leave just yet, either. Just . . .” He sighed. “Soon. It—it should be soon.”

“Right. Yes. I—yes,” Jon said, as the both of them settled again. He felt a bit better, but deep down, Jon knew Martin was right.

After a moment, Jon reached over the armrest and gently took Martin’s hand, knitting their fingers together. “Thank you. For staying here with me.”

Martin squeezed his hand back, saying nothing, and Jon smiled into his book.

As it turned out, however, Martin did not take his leave of the library anytime soon. Shortly after that conversation, as Jon was reshelving some woodcuts, Martin came bursting into the room, led by a moth. He was flush with excitement, a focused, eager expression on his face. He looked, Jon imagined, much like he himself looked when he’d come across a particularly fascinating piece of writing. It was a beautiful look on him, Jon thought.

“How did you do it,” Martin asked him breathlessly.

Jon shook his head, caught off-guard. “Did—what?”

“The poetry. How did you sacrifice it to me?” Martin rushed over to him, gesticulating. “I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up, I mean, it shouldn’t be possible. I’m not an angel. I don’t need power. I can’t _use_ it.”

“I . . .” Jon wasn’t sure what Martin was getting at. “Yes? I mean, yes, that’s—that’s true.”

“You said you couldn’t find anything to explain it? Anywhere in the library?”

“I—no,” Jon said, plainly. “Angel-paladin interactions are very well documented, but there aren’t any accounts of something like this happening before.”

Martin snapped his fingers and pointed them at Jon triumphantly. “Exactly.”

Jon stared at him. “What?”

“There _aren’t any accounts of something like this happening before_ ,” Martin said, grinning.

Jon was still utterly at sea. “I . . . yes? That’s what I just said, Martin.” His brow furrowed. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Jon,” Martin said, and reached out to take hold of Jon’s hands. Jon glanced down at them, feeling his face grow warm. They were terribly soft. “Think about it. There are no written records of angels sacrificing to paladins. And those records must go back centuries, at least.”

“The oldest I have is one thousand, two hundred, eighteen years old,” Jon supplied reflexively, the knowledge already in the forefront of his mind.

“Right. Right! So, it stands to reason, if it’s been that long, and no one’s written about it . . .”

And then Jon realized what he was getting at. His eyes went wide. “No one’s ever tried it before.”

 _“Exactly,”_ said Martin, his eyes bright. “Maybe what happened between us, an angel sacrificing to a paladin . . . maybe it isn’t a fluke. Maybe it’s always been possible. And we’ve just assumed, all this time, that it can only go one way.”

But it still didn’t make sense. “No, surely—surely _someone_ would have tried it, by now,” Jon said doubtfully.

“I’m not so sure,” Martin said. “Think about how angels and paladins normally work. Paladin ceremonies, sacrifices, prayers—the angels never have to put anything on the line. After all, if they have hundreds of paladins each providing them with power, why would they want to reciprocate? What angel would sacrifice something valuable for a single paladin out of hundreds? Who would even try?”

“And no one on either side would think to question it, would they,” Jon said, quietly.

“Maybe I’m overthinking things,” Martin said, his shoulders slumping a bit. “But whatever happened between us . . . Our situation’s a bit unorthodox, Jon, but I can’t believe that it’s never happened before, or that it won’t happen again.”

Jon’s head was already buzzing with bits and pieces of writing from his collection. “I . . . I will have to do more research,” he said, glancing around at the shelves, one excited hand combing through his braid.

Martin stepped closer to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Let me help,” he said. “Two researchers are better than one.”

Jon looked down at him with widened eyes. Oh, his Martin. “Yes, I—I imagine that’s true.” He paused, his face and chest gone terribly warm. “I—I’ve never actually had _another_ researcher around, before.”

Martin laughed, and Jon adored him. “You know what, Jon? To tell you the truth, neither have I.”

* * *

“But how will Martin know where to find us?” Sasha asked, squinting up at the mid-morning sun as the well-worn travelers’ road led them out of the town limits.

“An excellent question,” Tim said, turning around to face her as he walked backwards, a few meters ahead of her. Sasha suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at him, though she meant it fondly. Tim was full of get-up-and-go after they’d decided on their plan in the tavern the previous evening, and honestly, though she was less inclined to show it, Sasha was just as eager. They were still heading to the Capitol to meet with Bouchard, but there was one more stop in the city they needed to make beforehand, one that Sasha was particularly excited by.

“I was worried about Martin losing track of us, too,” Tim was saying, “but I’ve noticed that we’ve had some hangers-on lately.” Tim pointed at something behind Sasha. She turned, and caught sight of a large green moth, hovering a few meters away along the path, at eye level. Sasha was no expert, but she was willing to bet that wasn’t typical moth behavior.

She smiled at it. “Are you with Martin’s angel, then?” she asked it, playfully. It gave no indication it understood, but it didn’t flutter away, either.

“Now I figure,” Tim went on, “if we can see a moth, Martin’s angel can find us, which means Martin can find us.”

Sasha nodded. “Solid assumption, that.” At least, it had better be. Sasha wasn’t one for losing anyone in her party, and she knew Tim could be even more territorial. She turned back to Tim and the path ahead. “Shall we, then?”

Tim grinned at her jauntily. “Madam archer, we shall.”

Sasha hurried to match Tim’s strides, concern for Martin still buzzing in the back of her mind. She tried instead to put her thoughts to the journey ahead, and what they hoped to find out about the bizarre encounter they’d had with the beasts of the western forest. At the very least, she thought, the Angel of Curiosity would be pleased by the little detour they’d planned once they reached the Capitol.

After all, what better place to sate one’s curiosity than an archive?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always for reading!
> 
> The next fic is gonna be another plot-heavy one, with multiple chapters. I'm hoping this one will be quicker. Stay tuned!


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